


In Sickness and In Health

by liroa15



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liroa15/pseuds/liroa15
Summary: When Dylan's away, Mitch ends up having to take care of a sick Connor. It's not a thing. Except it's definitely a thing.





	In Sickness and In Health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callabang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callabang/gifts).



The thing is that Mitch has always understood about the relationship he has with Dylan and (especially) the relationship he has with Connor is that they can’t really be compared to each other or the relationship Dylan and Connor have. It’s never really been the same, and while teenage Mitch may have had some angst-filled nights over it, on the whole, it works for them. There’s things that he does with Dylan that Connor isn’t a part of, and there’s (a very few things) that he does with Connor that Dylan isn’t a part of, and there’s things that Dylan and Connor do together that he’s not a part of. 

It’s not always easy, but Mitch has never really been attracted to easy. Easy is for people who don’t want to put in the work, and Mitch has never been afraid of work. And mostly, they do make it work, which basically means a lot of awkward conversations for everyone.

Dylan’s away at the Blackhawks summer convention thing, so it’s just him and Connor this weekend. He lets himself into Connor’s apartment with the key Connor gave him at the start of the summer when he doesn’t get an answer to his texts about grabbing brunch and finds Connor curled up on his couch in probably every blanket he owns, even the terrible blue and orange fleece throw Mitch got him as a gag gift their first Christmas together, back when he and Dylan were still tearing up the O, and he didn’t have money to burn. And if the tissue box sitting besides the blanket lump is any indication, he’s clearly sick and probably has been for at least a day.

Mitch is not afraid to admit that he is in way over his head with this. 

“Davo?” Mitch tries and waits for Connor’s head to peek out the blankets.

“Marns?” Connor mumbles, and he sounds congested and terrible and possibly like he’s dying.

“Yeah, buddy,” Mitch agrees. “I came to see if you wanted to grab brunch or something.”

“No, I don’t wanna grab brunch,” Connor grumbles, pulling the blanket back over his head. “I think I’m dying.”

And the thing is, Connor genuinely sounds miserable. “Yeah, you sound pretty bad, bud,” he agrees absently.

“Where’s Dyls?” Connor asks after a second.

“He’s in Chicago,” Mitch says. “He’s got that thing for the Blackhawks, remember?”

The look on Connor’s face says that he does not remember, but that he doesn’t want to say that. “Yeah,” he agrees after a second. “Course.”

“All right, I’m gonna go and grab some OJ and some cold medicine or something. I think there’s a corner store around here somewhere.”

Connor flops down on the couch and reaches for the box of tissues. 

“Yeah, I’ll be right back,” Mitch mumbles. He waits until he’s locked the door behind himself before he phones Dylan.

“What’s up?” Dylan asks. “I’ve got about five minutes before Brinsky and I have to go sign autographs.”

“Davo’s sick,” Mitch says shortly. “So, like, any advice?”

“Jesus,” Dylan grumbles. “Honestly? He’s a total shit when he’s not feeling well. I wasn’t even there for most of his PT with the collarbone thing, but he was a fucking terror from everything I’ve heard. And he’s just back to full training after the leg injury, so, like good luck.”

Mitch was sort of afraid Dylan was going to say something like that. “Thanks, bud,” he mumbles.

“Oh, don’t get orange juice with pulp in it,” Dylan says all of a sudden, even though Mitch can literally hear someone in the background calling him. 

“Good to know, man,” Mitch agrees and barely gets out a rushed goodbye before Dylan’s hanging up, and Mitch is on his own. 

Mitch has never been less prepared for anything in his entire life, and he was drafted to his hometown team in the first round.

~

Half an hour later, he’s letting himself back into Connor’s apartment, two bags full of tissues and orange juice without pulp and three different types of over the counter cold medication. 

“Marns?” Connor calls. He’s still curled up on the couch underneath his blanket heap.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Mitch replies. “I got some juice and some cold medicine and tissues and shit.”

Connor makes an absolutely pitiful noise from inside his blankets.

“All right,” Mitch says, trying to remember what his mom used to do for him when he was sick. “You want soup?” he asks Connor, heading towards the kitchen for glasses.

“What, like you’re gonna cook?” Connor chirps, but it’s got a decidedly whiny note to it. Still, if this is as bad as it gets, Mitch can handle it.

“I can use Skip just fine,” Mitch returns and proceeds to do just that. He orders them both a fuckton of chicken noodle soup because that’s what you’re supposed to feed sick people. After a couple seconds’ thought, he adds a variety of sandwiches because Connor may not feel like eating anything more, but Mitch is going to need more than just soup.

And then he pours the juice and grabs the cold medicine and heads back to the living room.

“Here,” he says, settling on the couch beside Connor and holding out the juice. After a second, Connor’s flushed face appears in the middle of the blankets, and he takes the juice greedily. He hesitates over the cold medicine for a second until Mitch aggressively opens the box and practically has to chew his way into the blister pack.

“Tell doping to fuck themselves if they show up in the middle of the damn summer while you’re practically dying,” he says, thrusting the pills at Connor.

Connor takes them meekly and swallows them down with the last of his OJ. 

They both sit there in awkward silence for a couple of minutes until Mitch gets the notification that their food is on its way. He goes down to wait for it, and he’s pretty sure the driver recognizes him but tries to play it cool, which Mitch appreciates.

By the time he gets back up to Connor’s place with the soup and sandwiches, Connor’s managed to climb out of his blanket nest. His face is flushed, and his t-shirt is sticking to his shoulders with sweat, which gross.

“You probably wanna go shower, bud,” Mitch says, taking the soup to the kitchen. “You’ll feel better after you’re clean.”

Connor shuffles off to shower while Mitch gets their food out of the containers and plated. After a moment’s consideration, he moves it all out to the living room, sure that Connor will be more comfortable on the couch. 

Connor comes back in an old Otters t-shirt with Dylan’s 19 and a C on the shoulder and a pair of navy sweats with the Oilers logo on the hip. 

“Soup,” Mitch says, turning his attention to his own food. Connor eyes it for a second before settling down on the floor cross-legged to slurp at it noisily. He eats all of his soup and half a BLT before he pushes it away.

After they’re both done eating, Connor climbs back onto the couch and pushes at Mitch until he’s in one corner. He then proceeds to grab his Oilers blanket—Mitch’s heart skips a beat even though he knows it’s probably just because it’s the blanket currently on top of the pile—and puts his head in Mitch’s lap. 

“Remote’s there,” Connor mumbles, sounding a little out of it already. “Pick whatever.”

Which is how Mitch ends up watching _The Princess Diaries_ while Connor sleeps. When the movie ends, Mitch manages to slide out from underneath Connor without waking him and grabs a protein shake from the kitchen. He sends Dylan a quick update even though he doesn’t expect an answer.

When he gets back to the living room, Connor’s awake, blinking blearily with a thoroughly disgruntled look on his face. Mitch grabs him another glass of orange juice and some more DayQuil without him having to ask. 

“Sorry,” Connor mumbles. “This probably isn’t how you imagined spending your weekend.”

Mitch shrugs because he can’t exactly deny it, but it’s not like he really _minds_ either. “You’ll have to return the favour some time,” he says because it seems like a good, neutral thing to say. 

“Dyls texted me,” Connor says, holding out his phone. Connor’s got three text notifications from Dylan; the first says _feel better soon_ and the next two say _be nice to mitchy_ and the final one says _seriously, con don’t be an asshole_. 

“Tell him you’re fine,” Mitch says, settling back into his spot and picking up the remote and offering it to Connor. “What do you wanna watch?”

Connor’s busy replying to Dylan, so he waves away the outstretched remote. “Whatever,” he says, which Mitch knows it a fucking lie, okay? Connor has very specific opinions on everything.

Which is proven true when Mitch tunes it to _Say Yes to the Dress_ , only to have Connor practically snatch the remote from his hands.

“I was watching that,” Mitch says, just to be a dick.

“They always choose wrong,” Connor complains. “And the parents are awful, oh my God.”

Sometimes, Mitch has to admit, the parents can be pretty awful. 

Connor ends up signing into Netflix and picking something. 

“Netflix and chill, huh?” Mitch teases.

Connor rolls his eyes. “You wish, Mitchy.” 

Connor falls asleep halfway through the first episode of _Daredevil_. Mitch sends Dylan a picture of it and gets back three angel emojis and a laughing face back.

~ 

Dylan phones when he gets back to the hotel after from drinks with the boys. It’s late, especially with the time change, and Connor’s already asleep. Mitch doesn’t want to wake Connor, so he takes the call out in the living room.

“How is he?” Dylan asks as soon as Mitch picks up.

“Miserable,” Mitch admits. “I got him some DayQuil and some food, and we watched Netflix all day. Well, I watched Netflix. Connor slept through pretty much everything, despite having a lot of opinions on what we should watch.”

Dylan laughs a little at that. “Of course he did.” He pauses for a second, as if he’s not sure he should say what’s on the tip of his tongue. “I’m glad you’re there with him, Mitchy.”

Mitch looks around the empty living room with a frown. “Of course I’m here, Dyls. I know Davo and I aren’t as close as you and Davo, but there’s no way I’d just leave him to suffer on his own.”

Dylan lets out an aggravated breath. “That’s not what I meant, Mitchy. You know that’s not what I meant. No one believes that you love Connor any less than I do.”

“Sure sounded like it,” Mitch grumbles because he’s tired and he’s still not sure what he’s doing, and it’s easy to take it out on Dylan.

Dylan is silent for a moment. “If that’s what you think, I think we need to talk.”

Mitch can feel the dread building in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, sure, okay,” he agrees and practically rushes Dylan off the phone. 

Mitch locks up behind himself when he heads back to his place to grab a few hours of sleep, a shower, and some fresh clothes.

~

Mitch lets himself back into Connor’s place the next morning with more orange juice and breakfast for them both from the place by his house.

Connor hasn’t even woken up yet. He’s starfished across bed with the covers bunched around his waist, clutching one of his pillows like a teddy bear.

Mitch can’t help but smile at it. He takes a picture and almost sends it to Dylan before he remembers that he’s pissed at Dylan, and then he closes out of his texts angrily.

And then he grabs the blanket and pulls until Connor tumbles out of bed with a shout.

“Fucking asshole,” Connor comes up swearing.

“Morning, sunshine,” Mitch greets. “I’ve got breakfast in the kitchen.”

It turns out that Connor’s feeling a lot better, probably the result of a diet of DayQuil and sleep, so he and Mitch spend most of the day playing CHEL. Connor orders dinner, after which they end up curled on the couch together. Connor tries to hoard the remote, but Mitch insists on watching _Game of Thrones_. He’s in the middle of season 4 now, and he wants to finish the whole thing before heading back to training camp in the fall. That way, none of the guys can spoil it for him. 

“Dyls gets in tomorrow morning, right?” Connor asks while they’re waiting for the next episode to load. 

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. 

“He’s worried about you,” Connor says when the theme music starts playing. “He says you’re not answering him.” Which is true. Dylan’s texted him three times and called him once. Mitch declined the call and left the texts on read because he’s still a little pissed off.

“He doesn’t need to be,” Mitch replies, tone short. It’s not the first fight they’ve ever had, and it probably won’t be the last. It’s not even the worst fight they’ve ever had. That came after Dylan was sent back to Erie for a second time, and he stopped speaking to them both for weeks. All the same, Mitch doesn’t want to talk about it, and he doesn’t want to put Connor in the middle of it.

Thankfully, Connor drops it.

“You staying here tonight?” Connor asks when they start their third episode. Mitch should probably go home. Connor can mostly manage on his own now. His own apartment is empty though, and Mitch doesn’t want to be alone.

“If that’s okay with you,” he says because Connor might have other plans.

Connor shrugs. “Pretty sure I’ve already given you whatever I’ve got. It’s only fair I take care of you after you’ve done such a good job taking care of me.”

Mitch rolls his eyes at that. “It’s not like it was exactly hard to order soup and get cold medicine.”

“Just take the damn compliment, Mitchy,” Connor grumps. “Jesus Christ.”

“Fine, fine, you’re welcome for doing the absolute least I could to help you,” Mitch grumbles, stung. 

Connor punches him in the shoulder. It’s not hard or anything—Connor’s pretty shitty at fighting on a good day—but Mitch pretends to be mortally wounded because then he make Connor kiss it better.

Which he does. And then Connor drags him back to his room and turns him into a giant teddy bear, which is honestly too warm and a little uncomfortable. Mitch spends some time just staring at him, unable to sleep, before he gets up and grabs a quick shower. Connor’s starfished out over the entire bed again by the time Mitch gets back, and he has to try and squeeze his way in.

Connor latches onto him like a fucking octopus and won’t let go.

Mitch tries not to find comfort in that fact.

~

Connor’s alarm goes off at 5 am Monday morning. Mitch turns it off with a groan and flops back onto the bed. He should probably go for a run or something, but he just isn’t feeling it. 

He wakes up again when Connor climbs out of bed and heads off to shower. “We should get breakfast before we go pick Dyls up at the airport,” Connor says.

Picking Dylan up at the airport mostly involves sitting and waiting in arrivals for Dylan to find them, so that Connor doesn’t get mobbed at the airport.

“Yeah, sure,” Mitch agrees. “I should probably hit the gym this afternoon too,” he adds after a second.

Connor makes a face. “I have to call Gary,” he says, sounding hesitant. Mitch doesn’t blame him; Gary Roberts is one scary motherfucker. 

Mitch takes another shower while Connor phones his trainer, and when he comes out of the bathroom, Connor’s laid out some clothes for him. They don’t really fit, but it’s better than wearing the same stuff he was wearing yesterday.

“I should probably go home, huh?” he says, stepping out of Connor’s bedroom in an old Erie t-shirt and sweats that are several inches too long for him and thus probably Dylan’s. 

Connor shrugs, purposefully nonchalant. “Or you could just leave some stuff here,” he offers. “Pretty sure I won’t mistake it for any of my shit.”

“Just for that, I’m gonna make sure everything I leave here is Leafs branded,” Mitch threatens, trying not to smile as wide as he wants to. If the look on Connor’s face is any indication, he doesn’t exactly succeed. 

Connor ends up taking them to a hole-in-the-wall diner where the staff already seem to know him, and no one makes a fuss. Connor orders his usual for both of them and then turns to Mitch with a smile. “I come here a lot when I’m home,” he says.

“I could tell,” Mitch replies, but it’s nice to be let in on something like this.

The food’s good too, and it’s quick, which is definitely a point in its favour when two of the biggest young stars of the NHL are sitting together at a table in Toronto. 

Connor’s phone beeps, the tone he uses for reminders. “We should head out to the airport,” he says, motioning for the cheque, which comes in short order.

Connor doesn’t let Mitch even see the bill. He puts down a card, which is whisked away in seconds, and then they’re heading out to the airport. 

Connor doesn’t say much, outside of occasionally cursing out someone else on the road, but that suits Mitch just fine. 

The airport parking lot is a total clusterfuck, but Connor eventually manages to find a place to park and wait for Dylan. He sends a text with their location and a few minutes later, Dylan appears in the door, suit bag slung over one shoulder and rolling suitcase in the other hand.

“How was it?” Mitch asks after Dylan climbs in the backseat. 

“Good. Loud. The fans were great.”

Connor laughs at that. “And how many marriage proposals did you get?”

Dylan looks vaguely uncomfortable for a moment. “I’m pretty sure half the girls shouting at me weren’t even legal,” he confesses, and then tries to punch Mitch in the shoulder when both he and Connor break out laughing.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “No one knew who I was in Phoenix, and Erie wasn’t the same.”

“Poor baby,” Mitch coos at him. “You’ll get used to it.”

Dylan flips him off while pretending to scratch his nose. 

They lapse into silence for most of the rest of the journey back to Connor’s place. Dylan seems to still be decompressing from his flight, and Connor’s starting to look a little peaky. He’s not quite over his cold yet. 

“You should probably rest,” Mitch says when Connor pulls to a stop. 

“Just as soon as we talk,” Dylan interrupts. “Don’t even start, Mitchell,” he continues when Mitch opens his mouth to object.

Connor just nods, which means there’s no way that Mitch is getting out of this. He follows them both up to Connor’s place where he immediately heads to the fridge and grabs one of the two beers sitting there. 

“I don’t know how old those are,” Connor tells him. “Cam brought them over when I was still in Edmonton.”

Which means they’re old as fuck, and Mitch doesn’t care. He pops the cap and drinks half the bottle down in one long swallow. 

Dylan rolls his eyes. “It’s like you think it’s the end of the world,” he scolds. “All I want to do is talk, and since you so childishly resorted to ignoring me all day yesterday, we’re doing this now.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Mitch snaps, a little more belligerently than he should. “I was busy.”

“What’s going on?” Connor demands plaintively.

“Mitch and I had a talk while you were sick, and he seemed to think he wasn’t an equal part of this relationship. So I wanna know why.” Dylan says it like a challenge.

“Of fuck off,” Mitch grumbles. “That’s not what I said. You were acting like it was some big thing I was here. You both were, actually.”

“Because sick people are fucking gross,” Dylan interrupts. “And Connor’s an asshole when he’s sick.”

“Hey!” Connor grumbles. “I’m not bad.”

Dylan just gives him a look. “You’re whiny when you’re sick,” he says flatly. “Don’t even pretend you’re not.”

Connor looks over at Mitch, who makes a so-so motion with the hand not holding the beer.

“You’re not getting out of this,” Dylan says after a moment of silence. And now Connor is looking at him expectantly too.

“Take some fucking DayQuil, Jesus,” Mitch bitches, looking at Connor. “You’re not fucking better yet, even if you think you are.”

Connor rolls his eyes, but he does head to the living room to grab some more medicine. Dylan just continues to stare at Mitch expectantly until Connor comes back.

“It’s not…” Mitch breaks off, frustrated for a second. “Look, Davo and I aren’t as close as you and Davo or you and I are,” he finally says. “And that’s fine. That’s normal. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to be here when either of you need me. That’s how relationships work. We’re there for each other. We support each other. We buy fucking DayQuil and don’t expect fucking awards for it. I just… don’t act like you don’t expect me to do something you would have done because then it feels like I’m not really a part of this _relationship_.”

Dylan is quiet for a few minutes, clearly trying to make sense of Mitch’s word vomit. “You’re right,” he finally agrees. “I didn’t give you enough credit, especially since you’re clearly better at taking care of him than I am.”

“Look, I get it,” Mitch continues, now that he’s on a roll. “You and Davo are like brothers or whatever. I’m not trying to change that or get in between you. I just didn’t like you acting like I wouldn’t be here.”

“No one thinks that,” Connor says. “Dylan’s an idiot, and he’s really bad with sick people.” He pauses. “And Mitch, this isn’t a conversation that needed to be avoided.”

“And Connor’s going to stop trying to captain this relationship,” Dylan interrupts. 

“And I’m sorry if I made you feel like I wasn’t expecting your support,” Connor continues as if Dylan hadn’t spoken. “I know how important this is to you—to all of us—and I wasn’t trying to say otherwise.”

“Thanks,” Mitch mumbles. “I’m sorry I didn’t say that it was bothering me sooner. And I’m sorry that I didn’t let Dyls explain.”

“And I’m sorry that you’re an idiot,” Dylan grumbles and then hold his hands up in surrender under the force of Connor’s glare. “I’m sorry that I did a bad job at showing how impressed I was at your handling of the situation.”

“And I’m going to go and find something to watch on Netflix,” Connor continues. “So you two can kiss and make up.”

And with that, Connor ambles into the living room. Dylan raises his eyebrows behind his back. 

“We good?” Dylan asks after a second.

Mitch blows out a long breath. “We were always good, Dyls.”

“You really did a good job taking care of him, you know,” Dylan adds. “He doesn’t usually let people close enough to do it.”

Mitch shrugs at that because he doesn’t know what to say. “All I did was order him some soup and keep him company.”

Dylan shrugs. “Sometimes the simplest cures are the best.”

“I want you to remember that when I get whatever plague he has,” Mitch says.

Dylan wrinkles his nose at that. “Naw, man, hard pass. Sick people are fucking gross. With the snot and the whining and the germs.”

Mitch can’t help but laugh because _this asshole_.

“Are you done yet?” Connor calls from the living room because _that asshole_. Mitch can’t believe that he’s in love with both of these guys. 

“Yeah, asshole, we’re done,” Dylan says before he can with an eloquent eye roll. 

Mitch piles onto the couch next to Connor, but Dylan takes the armchair across the room, claiming that at least one of them needs to stay healthy.

~

Three days later, Mitch has just finished a session at the gym, and he’s mentally preparing for his lunch meeting with his agent when he gets a text from Dylan.

It’s just a picture of a box of over the counter cold medicine and a mug of tea. A second later, a text comes through. 

_I hate you assholes_ is all it says.

Mitch sends back about fifty laughing emoji faces and then _I’ll bring the soup._

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this hits a high point for you, dear callabang. I tried to work in as many of your likes as I could. I'm working on something else, but I couldn't finish it on time because it required a little bit of a rethink on my part. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this. The title comes from somewhat common marriage vows.


End file.
